You'll Hear Me Call Your Name
by Karmi-Sempai
Summary: December 28. Miles didn't lose only me that day. A few years earlier, when he was five, Death paid a visit. Unlike mine, this one had no pistols, or hatred, or retribution involved. This one was one of the hardest lessons Life had in store for us. That lesson was in the form of an accident. A car accident.


**Another ancient piece of writing, from another Tumblr role-play account. This time, it's as Gregory Edgeworth, with his headcanon of a wife, Myranda (Myra, for short) C. Edgeworth. I _completely_ overlooked that it doesn't normally snow in Los Angeles—I hope you'll forgive my ignorance—so I tweaked with the sketch—it's been over a _year_ since I wrote this—into something more plausible. Hope it doesn't sound _too_ convoluted, but if it does, I suppose you can chalk it up to artistic license. The title's from the last line of one of my favorite poems, _Should You Go First_, which I believe accurately describes how Gregory feels about his wife, and Miles his father. One last thing: This was written for an AU where Gregory _was_ dead, but came back to life, just so you know! Enjoy!**

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December 28. Miles didn't lose only me that day. A few years earlier, when he was five, Death paid a visit. Unlike mine, this one had no pistols, or hatred, or retribution involved. This one was one of the hardest lessons Life had in store for us. That lesson was in the form of an accident. A car accident.

I recall that winter being one of the coldest in Los Angeles, though it wasn't enough to turn rain—we had some earlier—into snow. We were driving home, from Miles's Christmas play. I had to be careful. Edgeworths weren't blessed with the best eyesight, and that part of the road was dark because streetlights weren't installed yet. But even my slow, cautious driving wasn't enough. A second or two at the intersection, there was the screeching of tires on black ice. A truck slammed into us. And the impact was to the passenger's seat. To Myra who was carrying Miles on her lap…

I woke up to her voice. She was singing. For a minute, I couldn't even understand what happened. All I knew was that it was completely dark. And someone was crying. Miles was crying. Then I realized Myra was singing that song—_our_song—to soothe him, just as she always did when our son was afraid. But her voice sounded… strange… It sounded… labored… The pain settled belatedly, and I realized I couldn't move anything except my right arm. Then my mind flashed to that one definitive moment when I saw nothing but blinding white and heard nothing but a horn. A truck's bellow. Then a crash.

The realization hit just as strong as when my head made contact with the window. Confirmed as I felt something warm trickle down the side of my head. Along with Miles's sobs, Myra's voice began to fade. She was falling asleep. An eternal sleep. I called out to her, but received no response. And I did the only thing I could do. I don't remember how I did it, but I found her hand. Her left hand. The one with her wedding ring on it. I squeezed it and whispered, "I love you..." Her voice was gone, but I knew she heard me. I knew because she squeezed my hand in return, the life draining out of her fingers. Then, just as quickly, warmth left her. She became cold. As cold as that December night.

I never pressed charges. How can you blame someone for an accident? When it was out of anyone's control? But for a while, I was angry, of course. I'm only human. I eyed that bottle of whiskey sitting on my desk countless times during those first few days. I would've given into the bottle to heal it all. To _forget_ it all. My problems. My pain. _My wife._ Even if it was only temporary. But Miles was there. And it hurt me more to hurt my son, being wrapped up so much in my own pain. I almost forgot he was hurting, too. He was only a child. It wasn't fair. He didn't need any of that. He did _absolutely nothing_ to deserve that. He didn't deserve a father who couldn't stay strong for even only himself. He didn't _deserve_ a father who would even _conceive_ of throwing away the other half of his heart. Especially when that other half belonged to—_lived on_—in someone else. _In Miles._ I couldn't let him see me that way. He counted on me. I was the only one he had left. And I love him. He and his mother—I love them far too much. Much more than myself and whatever I _thought_ was important. I had to be strong. I had to be strong not for myself, but for _them_. For Miles and for Myra.

And so, I flushed the contents of that bottle down the toilet where I wouldn't be even tempted to take a sip of it; I created petition and successfully had that part of the road lighted; and I even helped the truck driver find another job at the local deli where he became the owner.

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I visited Myra again today, and I can't help but think… Seeing my tombstone still standing next to hers, it looks like we'd be together for an eternity. But I guess not… Not yet at least. Myra and I always believed in patience, and we know these things are sent to try us. We'll just have to wait a bit longer. I know she'll be there waiting for me to get back. Just like in those days.

She'd always be sitting on the porch swing when I came home late from work. And I did the same for her when the Prosecutor's Office held her up for a bit. Sometimes, Miles would be with whoever was waiting, but he'd be fast asleep already. Myra and I would sit there for a while, holding each other's hands and sharing the silence. Her dark hair would bear silvery blue highlights from the moon, and her fair skin would become a milky white. She'd look so beautiful under the dimmed porch lights, and I'd just wanted to kiss her. And neither of us disappointed the other.

I love you, Myra… And I just want you to know that I'm with Miles again, and we're both all right. My only wish is that you're with us right now. But I know—we _all_ know—that we just have to be patient. Some day, we'll all be together again. Just like that old poem says, "For someday down that lonely road, you'll hear me call your name."


End file.
